


I Need Your Number

by ya_idjits



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Airport AU, Airports, M/M, No Hale Fire, bracket fic, but hey it's fanfiction, but not with such a cute ending, doctor who - Freeform, fluffy shit, human!AU, idek what i'm doing, one of my first tw fics, ovveruse of brackets, parenthesis, sterek, this used to have a chapter two but it was very ooc and sorta leaning towards crack, unrealistic, woah this actually happened to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ya_idjits/pseuds/ya_idjits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek loves people-watching, and the airport is pretty much the best place to do it. Especially when a guy as cute as that walks in the door...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Need Your Number

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on how this one's received, I might write some more fics in this universe. It's kind of a fun au to work with :)  
> Forgive me if this is not how you see the Beacon Hills airport in your head, I just made shit up.  
> It's actually based on a true story, but (because my life is not a fanfiction and instead is just full of humiliation), the guy didn't mention anything about DW, nor did he ask for my number. Alas, bc I can't live out the perfect romantic airport encounter, I'll just have to write sterek instead.

Derek looks up from where he’s waiting next to the baggage claims to scan the crowd; airports are always the best for people-watching. He’s had an abysmal day at the office, so he allows himself to be more nastily critical about the people around him than usual. There’s an old man who just walked out of the doors that lead to the gates (Derek sneers at the cheesy yellow _Welcome to Beacon Hills, the light of California!_ sign above them) who’s limbs are a thinness that shouldn’t be able to support his pot-belly. It’s not the weirdest build Derek has ever seen, but it’s… interesting. Next to the old man, there’s a Hispanic lady who looks like she’s spent too much money on Botox tottering out in stilettos she can barely walk in and a younger woman on either arm – her daughters, assumedly. Derek snorts at the troublesome, sequin-coated heels and turns back to the doors to look for Laura.

He can’t see her yet, even though the gate her flight is coming through is visible from the doors. A steady stream of other passengers, however, is more than enough to keep him entertained. For example, the young woman who just padded out wearing an obscenely short, hot pink thing (Derek can’t decide if it’s a skirt or shorts) and who has _mum_ and _dad_ (how non-generic) tattooed on either foot. Or the guy who looks like a body builder wearing an AC/DC shirt and sweats and carrying a little girl who has the same mischievous cornflower eyes as him. There’s a guy leaning on the desk of the rental car booth with dreadlocks down to his thighs and a scruffy blonde beard, and a couple lounging on the bench outside the bathrooms that make Derek feel slightly less out of place in his leather jacket because of their thick eyeliner and faces full of metal. Or that guy who just walked in the front door –

_Whoa._

_He’s **cute.**_

Derek eyes the guy (boy, really – he can’t be older than eighteen) up and down as he talks animatedly to the pair of adults walking next to him and swinging their joined hands. The woman is attractive enough, with chocolate curls that frame her face and a warm smile, and the man has greying blonde hair and crow’s feet branching from the corners of his kind eyes. The boy, though…

He’s wearing a Star Wars t-shirt with a low enough neckline that Derek can see his collarbones peeking elegantly out and maroon jeans that are tight enough to show the outline of his ass and calf muscles. Along with bright blue converse high tops, Cute Guy is wearing a green and orange plaid shirt that should clash with everything else he’s wearing (everything else in the _airport_ , Derek thinks with a grin) but somehow miraculously doesn’t. His pale skin is dotted with moles, and his hazel eyes are bright and shining as he flails his slender-fingered hands around to demonstrate something to the couple. Derek has a sudden image of those fingers tugging desperately at his hair as he laves the line of moles up the left side of the guy’s neck with the flat of his tongue, licking and sucking and leaving shiny pink marks that will fade to purple as Cute Guy moans underneath him –

“Derek!”

He jumps before collecting himself and scanning the crowd for a familiar mane of thick brown hair. He finds Laura easily because she’s running towards him, somehow not toppling over in ridiculously high wedge heels that make her a full head taller than him. She’s always been a good hugger, and Derek smiles into her shoulder because he especially needs the warmth after his shitty day at work. Ugh. Just thinking about work makes him nestle further into his sister’s hair and tighten his arms around her. She’s home just in time to watch the season premiere of Doctor Who with him; they’re restarting their almost religious weekly tradition of watching it together with bowls of popcorn and smarties – hopefully, it will make up for his crappy mood.

She laughs and pulls back. “Hey, Der-Bear, happy to see me?”

“Yeah,” he admits, trying to ignore her childhood nickname for him, because yeah, it _is_ nice to see her after a week of her being in Florida for a business conference. They stride over (Hales never simply walk) to the baggage claim to look for Laura’s bright red suitcase before Derek realises that he’s lost sight of Cute Guy. Panicking slightly, he tries to be as subtle as possible as he frantically scans the crowd for that bright plaid. When he finds it (Cute Guy has moved over to stand beside the terminal doors), he attempts to stop a flush from creeping up his neck when he realises how desperately he was looking for a person that he’s never going to even have any contact with, for Christ’s sake. Still, it can’t hurt to look…

“Derek? Jeez, you’re spacey today,” Laura says, nudging his shoulder. “What, bad day at work or something?”

Derek puffs out his cheeks before huffing all the air out loudly and nodding. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Appalling day.”

“Really?” Laura’s eyebrows knit. “Aw, poor boo, what happened?”

Derek gives her a mild glare and recounts the woe of having to deal with some asshole CEO of a competing company first thing in the morning, followed by many more misfortunes throughout his unusually long nine hour work day. Laura’s not watching him too aptly, because she’s still looking for her luggage, but if she notices him glancing around every few minutes to check that Cute Guy is still by the doors, she (thankfully) doesn’t comment. Over the course of the next few minutes, Derek watches as Cute Guy and his friends hug the person they were waiting for (a boy about Cute Guy’s age, who has a crooked jaw line and looks too much like the woman to not be her son) and move over to stand next to the baggage claim area. Derek’s speech absolutely doesn’t falter when Cute Guy combs his fingers through his gelled hair and makes it stick up even more, and Laura absolutely doesn’t stare at her brother with exasperation etched into her strong, dark features. And when the new guy says something that makes Cute Guy throw his head back to laugh, revealing the full length of his creamy neck, Derek does not – he does _not_ – think about biting down on the tender skin below that surprisingly well-defined jaw.

He doesn’t.

“Derek.”

Derek refocuses on his sister, realising that he’s stopped talking about his awful day at work and also that she’s now clutching the handle to her shiny crimson suitcase.

“What is wrong with you tonight?” Laura asks, analysing his dazed expression. She narrows her bright green eyes. “Are you high?”

“What? No,” Derek says defensively. “I’m fine.”

Laura raises her eyebrows, staring at him, but he stares right back until she shrugs and sighs. “Whatever, have it your way. I wanna go home.”

That’s understandable; she has just gotten off of a tiringly long flight, and now that Derek really looks at her, he can see the exhaustion in her eyes. Nodding, he holds his hand out for her to pass him the cold metal handle of her bag. As they walk out, he looks around again, just to see Cute Guy one last time, but he’s not where he’d been standing before, and Derek feels a frantic disappointment building up in his chest. Cute Guy hadn’t just been physically attractive, he’d looked like he was having fun at an _airport_ , of all places, and the way his eyes lit up when he was talking made Derek’s heart clench and he just looked so lively and that in itself was fairly attractive and now he’s gone, Derek can’t find that vibrant plaid anywhere and he’s never going to see Cute Guy ever again –

Something crashes into him and he barely feels the pain of having someone’s bony elbow buried in his stomach because as he falls over the only thing his brain can register is a pair of cobalt converse high tops –

“Shit, sorry. Wow, I am _really_ coordinated tonight, I’m sorry… oh.”

And _shit_ , Cute Guy's voice almost makes Derek lie down and cry because it's just so damn beautiful -

“Stiles?” The older man with the grey-blonde crew cut looks on with furrowed brows, his fingers still linked with his partner’s. The guy they’d come to pick up, the uneven jawline guy, is barely stifling laughter behind his hand.

Cute Guy – Stiles, Derek realises with glee – offers him a hand to help him, a bright pink blush that Derek feels dirty for loving creeping across his smooth cheeks. As he pulls Derek to his feet, he turns around to stage-whisper harshly at his friends.

“Why didn’t you tell me there was someone behind me?”

The woman laughs. “We tried.”

“You were ranting,” uneven-jawline chimes in. “Again.”

“Yeah, well, Doctor Who isn’t gonna watch itself, and the season premiere is on in –“

“We know, we know,” the man cuts in, chuckling. “You just told us repeatedly. It’s on at seven thirty.”

“Which is in ten minutes,” Stiles hisses. He turns back to Derek, and that delicious blush creeps up his neck again. Huh. “I’m so, so sorry. I obviously wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Derek laughs. “It’s fine, seriously. Neither was I. Actually,” he glances at Laura, “We were going to go home and tune in, as well.”

Stiles stares at him with wide eyes. “…I need your number,” he informs him seriously. “Like, _need._ ”

“Stiles!” The woman giggles disbelievingly.

“What? There’s no way someone looks that good in leather _and_ watches Doctor Who. I have to make sure he’s not a dream.”

By this time, his three friends are laughing so hard that uneven-jawline is bent over, clapping like some weird seal. Other people in the airport have stopped to watch the scene unfold, and Derek feels kind of uncomfortable being observed like that (although, that could be because the old Hispanic woman in the glittery heels is staring at him like he’s a hunk of meat).

He turns to Laura to ask her for a pen, but she’s already holding one out (he knew there was a reason he endured her dumb nicknames for him). He grabs it, grinning, and hands her the suitcase so that he can grab Stiles’ arm and hold it up.

“Whoa, wait, are you _serious_?”  
_  
Fuck, what?_

Derek tries not to show his inner panic. “Weren’t you?”

Stiles’ eyes are even more entrancing up close, that golden-hazel gleaming with excitement. “Well, yeah, but –“

That’s all Derek needs. “But nothing,” he says, summoning all his courage to get his next sentence out. “You’re too cute to let go.”

Stiles gapes at him like he’s grown another head when he scrawls his number onto the soft, mole-dotted skin of Stiles’ arm.

“I’m Derek, by the way.”

“Stiles,” he returns. They stare at each other for a good ten seconds before the man behind Stiles clears his throat.

“C’mon, son, you can call him tomorrow. Doctor Who, remember?”

Stiles nods, almost dreamily. “Right.” 

Derek realises that he’s still holding Stiles’ arm, and he drops it immediately and steps back. “I – um. Call me.”

Stiles nods again vigorously. “I will.”

“C’mon.” Uneven-jawline slings his arm over Stile’s shoulders. “Peter Capaldi time.”

Derek definitely doesn’t watch Stiles’ ass as he walks away.

As Laura exchanges the pen for the suitcase handle, she laughs. “Wow, go Derek! Picking up cuties at the airport –“

“Oh, shut up,” he directs at her half-heartedly, trying not to trip over as they make their way to the parking lot. When she doesn’t reply, he looks over to find a mischievous, positively wicked grin on her face. 

“Oh, god, you’re planning our wedding, aren’t you?”

She cackles. “You know me too well, baby bro.”

And if Derek gets hit in the face with popcorn later that night because he’s staring off into space with a wistful smile painted on his lips, well, no one needs to know.


End file.
